"Right, sit down here. Hold the scroll," the warrior instructed with a good-natured but slightly cunning grin. "Press one end of the wooden stick to your forehead, and whatever happens, don't pull your hand away. Understood?"

  "Yeah," Zhang Ming nodded.

  "Then begin. You'll understand everything right away."

  No matter how ridiculous these actions seemed to him, he followed the advice, sat down cross-legged, closed his eyes, and pressed the scroll to his forehead. At first, nothing happened. He only felt dust tickling his nose and heard the mercenaries' laughter nearby. However, within moments, the world exploded. His mind filled with clear images, various martial arts moves unfolding one after another, like a training program downloading straight into his brain. When it ended, he opened his eyes and took a deep breath, as if surfacing from under deep water.

  What nonsense! Sorcery? Magic? Now I understand the drawings and writings. It feels like I've seen every move from the scroll in real life hundreds of times! Zhang Ming thought. I'd never have believed it if I hadn't experienced it myself.

  "How is that possible?" he blurted out involuntarily. "I once saw a guy flying on a sword, but thought I was imagining it."

  "Hahaha! You're something else!" the bearded warrior laughed. "Calling one of the immortal spellcasters, Dao seekers—a guy! Hahaha! Good thing they didn't hear you."

  "Immortals?"

  "Yeah. Probably one of them created the scroll. Though I can't see why. It's just the most basic body-tempering method for the first stage. Maybe it was made for teaching kids? Anyway, you're lucky."

  "Um..." Zhang Ming wanted to ask what he meant, but suddenly realized the answer was already in his head. "Amazing."

  "What a sight you are! Hahaha," the warrior chuckled. "The scroll's all smudged. Looks like it's had more than one owner, and no one figured out how to use it. Hm," he suddenly turned serious and added thoughtfully, "You're probably right. Mastering martial arts is tough without a teacher... it's like finding your way in pitch blackness with your eyes blindfolded."

  "Is the scroll single-use, or can I use it again?" Zhang Ming clarified, and coins were already jingling in his head.

  "Wanna sell it? I get it. Can't say exactly how many uses it has left, but there's still energy in it; it's not completely drained."

  "Oh! Then I'll try to sell it."

  "Don't count on a big haul. Heh. Those with money prefer to hire a live teacher. You know yourself, an experienced mentor is better than a silent stick. The poor won't pay much."

  "A couple of extra coins is already good."

  "Hah! Do as you wish!" the bearded warrior clapped him on the shoulder, nearly folding him in half. "But I advise keeping the scroll handy, just in case. You never know."

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  "Thank you!" Zhang Ming thanked him sincerely and bowed politely.

  "Hm. Train hard and you'll become much stronger."

  The next morning, the caravan set off back home. The journey to his native Baohe passed without incident, if you don't count a couple of broken wheels and the drivers' constant bickering. When familiar outlines of walls, palaces, and towers appeared in the distance, all the expedition's participants sighed with relief. Ceremoniously, they marched through the streets to the Tsanyan clan estate, where the mercenaries returned their cloaks with the clan's emblems and lined up for their reward, impatiently shifting from foot to foot, like a flock of hungry ducks at a feed trough.

  Over twenty days of travel, Zhang Ming had earned nearly three times more than in all his days as a harbor porter. When the hefty pouch stuffed with coins landed in his outstretched palm, his heart pounded so hard he feared everyone around could hear it. He frantically shoved his prize inside his shirt, and it pulled his clothes down with a heavy but pleasant weight.

  Suddenly, it seemed everyone around was eyeing him, eyeing his precious, hard-earned pouch of coins. The hungry stares of the other mercenaries, the indifferent ones of the passersby, the suspicious glances of the city guards, and even the mournful look of a mangy dog digging in a garbage heap, all seemed aimed right at him.

  They know about my coins! Zhang Ming thought, wiping his sweaty brow. Definitely! Bandits everywhere! Thieves on every corner!

  The jingling of silver with every step sounded to him like a deafening alarm bell, calling all the robbers in the area. He tried to act like he had no money, even attempted to whistle, but it came out too tense. Ducking around a corner, Zhang Ming broke into a run and dashed down the dirty streets, weaving between shacks and houses, headlong, until his lungs were burning and a sharp pain stabbed his side.

  Darting into a dark alleyway reeking of urine and rot, he found a secluded spot piled with empty baskets and dove in, panting and clutching his pay sack tightly, pressing it to himself as if it were his own beating heart about to leap out of his chest.

  Poverty has driven me crazy... Zhang Ming sadly summed up his brief sprint. Spooked. What have I turned into? I need to calm down... though vigilance doesn't hurt.

  Just in case, he hunkered in his hideout for at least half an hour. Only after confirming no pursuit and that no one was prowling around for his modest wealth did the novice mercenary emerge and, trying not to attract attention, trudge home.

  Zhang Ming had no idea that on that day, several men who'd joined the expedition with him never made it home. They met their end in dirty alleys, and all their belongings and hard-earned coins vanished without a trace. Such things happened often. The lives of people, especially mercenaries without clan or tribe, without money or connections, weren't worth a penny in this city.

  Unsuspecting, Zhang Ming reached his street and glanced from afar at the house. In the old days, when he returned from work, two little girls would sit in front of the house, drawing in the road dust with sticks, and at the sight of him, they would run away like mice from a cat. But he knew, they waited for his return. Now, only a couple drunks lounged in the street, a beggar slept on his rags against a house wall, and a woman in a patched dress carried a basket of vegetables from the market.

  Entering the empty house, Zhang Ming saw no one had been there for days. Two empty rice sacks lay crumpled in the corner. He felt a pang of guilt, recalled the tears on their dirty faces, and his heart clenched painfully. Trying not to think of them, Zhang Ming drank some water and collapsed to sleep, but slumber eluded him.

  "That's why I didn't want kids! Always gotta watch them, worry. What a hassle," he grumbled to himself. "Pity 'em, sure, but why should I care for someone else's snot-nosed kids when I don't have my own? Live how you want!" he waved it off, but after a minute, sat up on the bed. "Where are they wandering?"

  His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of footsteps and men's voices at the house door.

  "Two days we've been chasing 'em. I'm beat. Time to call it quits."

  "I'm telling you! Those brats definitely have silver on them! Too early to give up!" replied another voice, more insistent and greedy.